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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797716">Devil Went Down to Georgia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson'>chief_johnson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Little Devils [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order: SVU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Family Drama, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:21:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a family emergency summons Amanda back to her hometown, she and Olivia run into a strange cast of characters, some sticky situations, a bit of Georgia wildlife, and a heapin' helpin' of Southern dishes. Devilishverse. Multichapter. Fluff &amp; humor, with some angsty moments and a whole lot of family history.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Little Devils [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! I will attempt to keep this note brief, so it doesn't end up longer than the chapter itself. As you'll see, it's a shorter one, but the entire fic is almost 19k words, and my beta was kind enough to go through and add chapter breaks for me. A few are shorter than others, but there's 8 chapters altogether and I'm going to TRY to post one a day. Other important stuff: I resurrected a character from the dead for this fic, and I regret nothing. In, I believe, "Take Me to Church," I wrote Amanda thinking that her Grandmama Brooks was probably rolling over in her grave. Well, surprise! Grandmama Brooks is alive and kickin'! Let's just pretend that was one of those "my grandmother, God rest her soul... j/k she's not dead" jokes. Not as important, but FYI: A number of things inspired this fic. I love how much old ladies love Olivia on the show (and vice versa), and I've been wanting to pay tribute to that at some point. Plus, I've wanted Amanda to take Liv to Georgia and meet some relatives for a while, so there's a little of that too. And I've always had an affinity for the South (minus the bigotry and other yucky stuff), so here were are. I'd call this one fluff &amp; humor, with a pinch of underlying angst, and lots &amp; lots of references to the long fic. And now that I've failed miserably at keeping this short... enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <a href="https://imgur.com/pYuiU8P">
    
  </a>
</p>
<hr/><p><strong>Chapter 1: </strong>Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>"You're just a bee charmer, Amanda Jo. That's what you are—a bee charmer."</p><p>The drawl had a definite Southern husk to it, but the elongated vowels and cotton-soft R's were more bayou than backroad. If Ruth Jamison had marveled at her pal Idgie rustling up some honey from an alligator nest rather than a beehive, it would have been a spot-on imitation.</p><p>Olivia was getting better at her accents—their recent viewing of <em>Fried Green Tomatoes</em> helped—she just needed to work on her geography south of the Mason-Dixon. And her timing. Amanda was in no mood to charm bees of any sort after one of the little shits had just lighted upon her neck, took a good long look around, and jammed its stinger into her flesh for no apparent reason. (Slapping it with an open palm may have been partly to blame.)</p><p>"If I'm so damn charming, why the hell'd that little effer stab me?" she groused, rubbing the small bump right at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. It had already swollen to pea size, even though the honeybee who was responsible had yet to perish. The insect floundered on the porch step like a staggering drunk, until Amanda crunched it under her thin heel. A mercy killing, death was imminent.</p><p>"You look so pretty, it probably mistook you for a flower," said Olivia, brushing away Amanda's hand to examine the assaulted area. She blew on it lightly, alleviating none of the pain, but forming her lips into a perfect pink pucker that conjured images of Bubble Yum clouds, soap bubble globes, and some far less childlike pursuits to which only Amanda was privy.</p><p>The flower thing might not be too far off. In Manhattan, amid the hustle and bustle, the asphalt and exhaust, the overweight pigeons and overconfident subway rats, black was the predominant color for clothing. Amanda had taken up the somber mantle as naturally as any native New Yorker, whittling her wardrobe down from multiple brights—her "Mandy" attire—to a steady palette of darks that rivaled the closet of Batman himself.</p><p>But that was the city. When you were standing on your grandmama's front porch in the blazing Georgia sun, the heat from the floorboards baking your feet inside their strappy nude sandals, you dressed accordingly. So she had worn the sundress, though it was the most colorful addition to her trousseau in years, almost to the point of feeling garish. Mustard yellow ("I think it's more 'sunflower,'" Olivia had said, peering over Amanda's shoulder and hugging her around the waist as they admired the midi in the mirror), knee-length, with a coy triangle of exposed skin beneath the tie-up neckline, it made Amanda feel pretty and girlish in a way she never had growing up in Loganville.</p><p>Back then she'd been too rough-and-tumble, scrapping with all the boys, and later, doing more than just scrapping. They had never treated her with the tenderness and care of the woman at her side. Funny how it took a feminine touch to bring out her softer, sweeter nature. Shania Twain had it wrong—no man was necessary to feel all-woman. Then again, Shania had never met Olivia Margaret Benson.</p><p>She had adapted to her surroundings like a chameleon, donning a sweet summer dress that had already earned her several compliments from the ladies lunching at the diner. "Well, aren't you just the prettiest thing to come through these parts in a coon's age," said one particularly chatty waitress, who was probably ten years Olivia's junior, "And that dress, land sakes!"</p><p>Amanda was almost certain they were commenting—with the double entendre and sugarcane smiles typical of the South—on what was inside the frock, but she couldn't blame them. The captain's curves were made to be embraced by the white cotton wrap, cinched at the hip with a slouchy bow, ruched at the shoulders, hem whispering against her calves. The tulip skirt provided a daring glimpse of inner thigh with every step, a print of sweet pea sprigs toning down the provocative cut, keeping it innocent, light.</p><p>She looked like she belonged barefoot in a field of wildflowers, snowflakes of cottonwood fluff in her hair, crowds of Black-eyed Susans, violets, bluebells and milkweed reaching out for the chance to touch her, to kiss her golden-brown skin (it had taken all of one day for her to tan flawlessly in the summer sunshine), a goddess walking among them.</p><p>Currently, the goddess was scraping the edge of her credit card across Amanda's pricked, pulsing flesh, trying to extract the barb from underneath. They had become something of an expert team at removing stingers as quickly as possible, once Jesse's bee allergy presented itself a year ago. Thankfully they hadn't needed to use the newfound skill for anything other than the occasional splinter, but Olivia was putting all those YouTube videos and wikiHows to work now. She angled the Mastercard at eye level, showing off the black fleck on the plastic like a doctor displaying the bullet she'd just tweezed from a patient's gut.</p><p>"Am I s'posed to make a wish?" Amanda asked, still irritable as she tented a palm to her throbbing neck. She probably didn't look quite so pretty and sunflower-fresh anymore, red faced and scowling, her tousled blonde waves frizzing in the humidity.</p><p>"I think that's dandelions and eyelashes," Olivia said, ignoring the grouchy tone. Wisely, she had worn her hair up in a loose French twist, the untucked strands tumbling over themselves to flutter at her neck and shoulders. (Somehow, it reminded Amanda of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, Adam just a breath away from the outstretched finger of God.) "But if that's how you do down in Georgia, honey-love . . . "</p><p>Staying pissed off was hard with Olivia looking—and talking—like that. Amanda rolled her eyes anyway and said, "Fine," before sending the stinger aloft with a puff of air from her funneled lips. "I wish this visit was over and we were back in the city, instead of roastin' like a couple pigs on a spit. I wish my underwear wadn't ridin' up my sweaty ass crack. And I wish that bee would burn in hell. Like we are."</p><p>"Wow." Olivia tucked the credit card back into her woven straw tote, an overpriced but extremely cute accessory she'd found at the airport in Atlanta and insisted on buying—there was a faded billboard ad for peaches stenciled on its side. She could be such a girl sometimes.</p><p>"Someone wore her cranky pants today," she said lightly, and unspooled her hair from the tortoiseshell claw, fanning its extravagant weight and length around her shoulders. Mm, rosemary and mint. She combed her fingers gently through Amanda's hair, the halo of frizz at the top and the marshland underneath, and caught it up in an airy ponytail, pinned in place with the claw. "Better?"</p><p>It was better, actually. But. "Now you'll be hot."</p><p>"I'll be fine." Olivia placed a hand on the side of Amanda's head, drawing her near to kiss the opposite temple. "Your grandma has air conditioning, right? We can cool down inside, get off our feet for a while. I bet she has aloe or something else we can put on that sting, too. Let's just go in for a bit, say hello, and see how it goes, okay, sweetie?"</p><p>Normally it would have driven Amanda crazy to be pacified so, to be <em>handled</em>, but Olivia was being extra patient and indulgent with her, in spite of the heat, the jet lag (if a two hour flight within the same time zone qualified as such), the forty minute drive up from Atlanta in a cramped rental, and the incessant whining. The least she could do was return some of that kindness; she would need the captain on her side if she hoped to make it through this impromptu family reunion without committing familicide.</p><p>"A'right," Amanda said grudgingly, allowing herself to be guided forward by Olivia's steady, reassuring palm at the small of her back. She had recently found that when that hand wasn't there, she missed it, the way you missed a lost ring or a watch that stopped working. Lord, when had she become such a clinging vine?</p><p>"But 'member what I said, okay? If Mama's here, we get in, we get out. No nicey-nice. And if she gives you any shit, you tell me, and I'll deal with her." Amanda leveled a serious gaze at Olivia, much like the one she used when she gave Jesse and their other kids—but mostly Jesse—a stern talking to. Only now, it was aimed up instead of down. "Got it?"</p><p>"Sir, yes, sir." A faint smile accompanied the staccato reply, and Olivia scuttled her fingernails along the exposed skin just above the shirred back panel of Amanda's dress.</p><p>"Sorry. I know I'm bein' all . . . scrappy."</p><p><em>Bitchy</em> was the word she'd been looking for, but it felt weird to swear on her Grandmama Brooks' front porch—even though she'd already done it several times since the kamikaze bee attack. Her grandmama was probably the only reason Amanda hadn't ended up a complete heathen in the first place.</p><p>Whereas her mama had seen fit to drag her to First Baptist of Loganville every Sunday and use the Bible like a weapon ("If a daughter profanes herself by whoring, she profanes her father; she shall be burned with fire," was a particular favorite, the part that specified a <em>priest's</em> daughter conveniently amended), Grandmama Brooks had taught her that church wasn't just four walls and an altar ("Church is where you make it, Mandy") and only quoted verses at her in a positive light ("He's got every one of those hairs on your towhead numbered, baby girl. You're worth more than all the sparrows").</p><p>And now, the kind-spirited but feisty, God-fearing but sensible woman who once threatened her former son-in-law Dean with a shovel, should he ever lay a hand on her eldest daughter again, had suffered a stroke. A mild one, according to the late-night call from Beth Anne—a lot of blubbering, interspersed with the words "my mama" and "brain attack"—but any sort of health issue was cause for concern when you were nearly eighty-one years old.</p><p>"We should go," Olivia had said, the moment Amanda ended the call and explained what had happened, mentioning offhandedly that Beth Anne was requesting her presence. (Olivia's name hadn't entered the conversation at all.)</p><p>"Seriously? Mama'll have her nose in everything. Putting on a big, dramatic show as usual." Amanda had stroked Olivia's cheek then, as delicately as stroking the petals of a tea rose, her fingers almost tentative. "Sure you wanna subject yourself to that?"</p><p>"I'm not afraid of Beth Anne, love. And it's your grandma. I know how much she means to you. Besides, you still owe me an ice cream from that van where you lost your virginity."</p><p>Two days later, after making the necessary arrangements at work, securing a flight, and securing childcare—Amanda had refused to include their kids in the outing, which would inevitably turn into a three-ring circus, as all her family gatherings did—they were in Loganville. Home sweet home. No sign of Memphis Boatwright or his ice cream truck, née sex van, to report as of yet.</p><p>"I like my baby scrappy," Olivia said, dotting a second kiss to Amanda's sweaty temple before flapping a light breeze her way via foldable fan, another airport purchase. Amanda had teased her about that one. <em>City girl can't take the heat, huh?</em> Wasn't quite so funny anymore.</p><p>"Now ring the doorbell." Olivia jutted her chin towards the push button in its little brass plate, her hair wafting about her shoulders with each flick of the fan. "It's hot as balls out here."</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In the Words of Mumbo Gumbo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for the chapter 1 reviews! To the anon who asked for clarification: no, this isn't the long fic I've been working on. Sorry about the confusion. This is just another of the "shorter" Little Devils I've been writing in the meantime. I'm guessing the long fic is probably about 8+ times longer than this one, at least. And y'all know when I finish it 'cause my scream of victory and relief and absolute freakin' joy will be heard the world over. XD However, global though my screams may be, my language skills are more localized, so if I butchered the French in the chapter(s) ahead, <i>pardonnez-moi</i>. The ending is a bit abrupt here, but the follow-up will be posted tomorrow, God willing and the creek don't rise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 2:</strong> In the Words of Mumbo Gumbo</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"It's hot as balls out here."</em>
</p><p>Amanda was still grinning at Olivia's use of the off-color phrase when a large, barrel-chested woman with a pompadour of springy gray curls threw open the door and snatched her bodily from the stoop. ("Oh!" Olivia uttered below her breath, too surprised to intervene.) For the next few moments, she was squeezed within an inch of her life by a pair of boa constrictor arms that only eased up when she coughed out, "Ouise. Can't. Breathe."</p><p>"What's the matter, JoJo? Big city making you soft?" the woman boomed, planting Amanda back on the welcome mat that read <em>Hey Y'all</em> in wiry black coir. She looked Amanda up and down, her eyebrows, as wiry as the mat, inching toward her hairline. "You used to could handle a squeezer from Ouiser."</p><p>"Yeah, when I was a kid and not dying of heatstroke." Amanda cringed inwardly at the insensitive wording—showing up at the home of a stroke victim and immediately joking about death and strokes of any kind was <em>just plain tacky</em>, as Mama would say.</p><p>Oh Lord, not even back for five seconds and already quoting her mother.</p><p>Fortunately, Ouise didn't appear to notice the breach in social etiquette, and she stepped aside when Amanda invited herself into the foyer, dragging Olivia by the hand. In fact, once the old woman's eyes had locked on the captain, she didn't appear to notice much of anything else. She was openly staring, thumbs hooked around the straps of her striped cloth overalls, and rocking back and forth like a dinghy in her Birkenstocks and black tube socks.</p><p>"I'm old and crabby like you now," Amanda added, the cool rush of central air putting her to rights almost at once. Suddenly she understood that whole Marilyn Monroe standing over the subway grate thing, except her skirt barely swished against her knees. "'Least I didn't get as ugly as the ass-end of an armadilla."</p><p>"Amanda," Olivia said with a hint of alarm, as if she were just discovering ten years in that Amanda was prone to elder abuse. She looked even more perplexed when Ouise threw back a foghorn blast of laughter, the khaki fishing hat leaping from the crown of her head and dangling from her neck by the chin cord.</p><p>Lacing an arm around Olivia's waist, Amanda urged her forward until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. The captain had a tendency to hang back and observe family interactions from the sidelines, as if she didn't belong. But like it or not, she was part of Amanda's family now, and that meant it was time to meet Heloise Broussard. "It's okay, baby. This is just great-aunt Ouiser, the old windbag I was telling you about. Or should I say windless old bag?"</p><p>"Wheezer?" Nonplussed as ever—or at least since entering the Brooks-Broussard household—Olivia allowed herself to be presented like a reluctant child, for kissing and pinching by a distant relative. Which turned out not to be too far off, when Ouise accepted her outstretched hand and brought the back up for a kiss.</p><p>"<em>Enchanté</em>," said the older woman, treating Olivia to a rare display of her most genteel behavior. When Amanda was a kid, Ouise had been the one who chopped firewood for the family, the one to whom you brought pickle jars for opening. After that greeting at the front door, Amanda could attest that her aunt's strength and roughneck tendencies hadn't dissipated with age. But she handled Olivia as delicately as a hummingbird from her backyard garden.</p><p>"Oh. Likewise." Olivia smiled her prettiest closed-lip smile before gently retracting her hand, trying to slide it into a pocket, realizing she didn't have one. She really didn't know what to make of Ouise yet. Neither did most people, and that had always seemed to suit the old woman just fine.</p><p>"O-u-i-s-e, short for Heloise." Ouise twitched her head toward Amanda like she had a nervous tic, her eyes still glued to Olivia. "Wisenheimers like that one there added an 'R' at the end, on account I had the assmouth as a child. It stuck."</p><p>"Asthma," Amanda translated, when Olivia snuck a questioning glance in her direction. She couldn't help snickering at her poor, befuddled Liv. New York City might be the great melting pot of the United States—and indeed, the captain was well-versed in numerous cultures, languages, and beliefs—but Southerners were still a rarity, especially Louisiana-bred, Georgia transplants like Ouise. "Don't get her started on her name and how they stole it for <em>Steel Magnolias</em>, though. We'll be here all dang day."</p><p>"They did!" Ouise cried, all but stamping her foot in indignation. "That Shirley McConnell—"</p><p>"MacLaine," Amanda sighed. She had this speech memorized practically word for word: how Shirley MacLaine was a thieving Yankee (actually, MacLaine hailed from Virginia, but try telling that to a ranting Ouiser) who didn't even get the accent right, and how the director of the movie was an even bigger thieving Yankee, who had obviously never set foot in a Louisiana parish in his whole <em>nouveau-riche </em>Hollywood life. But for the first time she could remember, someone dared to disagree with the bulldozer of a woman—and that someone was Olivia.</p><p>"Actually, the movie was adapted from the stage. It was a play first, I believe by a playwright who was from Louisiana," Olivia said, gradually losing steam the further she explained. She glanced back and forth between the gawking faces in front of and beside her. "What? My mom took me to see it for my nineteenth birthday. It was really good . . . "</p><p>And then, with the flattery and charm of an honest-to-goodness Southern belle, she added: "Ouiser was my favorite character. Much better in the stage version."</p><p>Lord, the woman caught on quick. Amanda beamed at her with unabashed pride and slid a smug little wink over to her aunt, who still hadn't quite recovered from being contradicted. <em>Eat your heart out, tante</em>, said that wink.</p><p>"What did you say your name was, <em>cher</em>?" asked Ouise, narrowing her honey-colored eyes at Olivia, though her lips quirked up at the corners. She didn't smile for just anyone, Great-Aunt Ouise. Used to be, only Amanda and her grandmama Adélaïde (or "Laidee," as Ouise had always called her) could get a genuine show of mirth from the older woman, formidable in size and temperament—and that was after years of practice. Olivia managed it in under five minutes.</p><p>Had to be the dress.</p><p>"It's Oliv—"</p><p>"Oh, sorry," Amanda interjected, annoyed with herself for overlooking the captain's introduction. The heat was making her scatterbrained, as well as moody. How she had survived twenty-nine summers of Georgia's ungodly heat, she would never know. "Aunt Ouise, this is my . . . lady friend, Olivia Benson."</p><p><em>Lady friend? </em>What the hell?</p><p><em>Lady friend</em>? Olivia mouthed at her, wearing an arch expression to match her arched eyebrows. She tucked her top lip over the bottom in that way she had, accentuating the cute heart-shaped curve of her mouth. Thankfully she looked more amused than put off—or worse yet, hurt—by Amanda's awkward fumbling. She accepted the arm Amanda snaked around hers, natural as you please, and splayed her fingers automatically for the ones that wove between them.</p><p>"Captain Olivia Benson," Amanda said, covering the faux pas and restoring a little of her dignity. She returned the small squeeze Olivia gave her hand, feeling bolstered by the simple yet intimate contact. Whatever happened during this, the homecoming she'd been avoiding for years, she could get through it with her captain by her side.</p><p>"My, my." Ouise swept an appreciative gaze from Olivia's pretty pedicured feet, on rare display in a pair of flat-soled sandals so streamlined she appeared barefoot, up to the sweet-pea dress her generous curves were poured into, and up again to rich brown waves that momentarily reminded Amanda of hot fudge overflowing a sundae. Judging by Ouise's face, she had come to much the same conclusion. "<em>Captain</em> Olivia Benson, you don't say."</p><p>"You can call me Liv. Most people do." Olivia was doing a decent job of pretending she didn't notice the staring. She tended to be oblivious to how many heads she turned in public, and sometimes it was difficult to tell if she just didn't care or if she really didn't know how beautiful she was. In this instance, she'd have to be blind not to see the effect she was having on the roughly five-ten, mildly androgynous seventy-year-old.</p><p>Ouise contemplated the offer for a moment, then gave a shake of her large head, an appendage that had always looked better suited to a lion. "Naw. What was it you called her, JoJo? <em>Bébé</em>?" She showed Olivia a set of teeth as off-white and uneven as the vaults in a New Orleans cemetery. "Everyone gets a nickname in this house, Bébé, captains included."</p><p>"Them's the rules," Amanda said, as if it were out of her control, when Olivia glanced at her for help. As far as nicknames went, Bébé was a fairly decent one—much better than JoJo, or poor Kim's honorary title of Kimbo Ya-ya (a play on gumbo ya-ya, both a Cajun dish and a term for everyone talking at once).</p><p>"Fine, then. JoJo." Olivia resigned to her fate with a defeated little sigh. She tipped a nod of her sable head to Amanda's aunt, granting permission. "Ouiser."</p><p>After they shared a light chuckle—or rather, a deep, resonating chuckle from Ouise—Amanda peered past the older woman, into the roundabout hall that branched off to the parlor on the right, the living room on the left, and met up in the epicenter of any good Southern home: the kitchen. "Mama here?" she asked cautiously, conveying her meaning (<em>please say no</em>) with her eyes instead of her voice. She hadn't heard Beth Anne's loud mouth yet, so in all likelihood the woman wasn't present, but it was better to be safe than sorry.</p><p>"Hell no," said Ouise, ushering Amanda and Olivia towards the kitchen, by way of the living room, which looked more than ever like a glossy out of <em>Southern Living</em> magazine. She wagged a sausage-link finger at the bay window and its view of the backyard garden, her pride and joy, and the closest thing she'd ever had to a child of her own. "Does it look like my azaleas have withered up and died? She ain't been here since Laidee got home from the hospital. Brought over a big crock of etouffee, like I couldn't whip one up in my sleep."</p><p>The lifelong feud between Heloise Broussard ("Aunt Hel," as Mama called her, jeeringly) and Beth Anne Rollins hadn't been resolved due to family crisis, it seemed. Beth Anne considered the older woman coarse, her bayou flair ill-mannered and appalling; she'd never forgiven Ouise for telling her she was born part alligator and her skin would turn green and spiny by the time she was twelve. Ouise had never forgiven her niece for being an "uppity bourgeois priss" who thought she was too good for her Louisiana roots. Ah, family.</p><p>"You ever had etouffee, Bébé?" Ouise called over her shoulder, barreling into the sunny kitchen nook where the breakfast table overlooked a stilted porch, and below that, the garden. She patted the backs of two chairs, indicating her guests should sit.</p><p>"What? Oh," Olivia said, when Amanda nudged her lightly with an elbow. She glanced up in surprise from the magnolia tree she was admiring, its blossoms rising just beyond the porch like a flock of heaven-bound white doves. "Etouffee? No, I don't think so. What is it?"</p><p>"Only the best thing you'll ever put in your mouth, <em>cher</em>."</p><p>"I doubt that," Olivia burred in Amanda's ear, leaning over the back of the chair she'd pulled out for her.</p><p>Scooting up to the table with Olivia's assistance, Amanda stage-whispered, "It's crawdaddies and rice smothered in roux," to the captain, grinning at the crinkled nose and curled lip it elicited.</p><p>Ouise missed the exchange entirely—her head was in the fridge, where she was probably retrieving the pitcher of sweet tea that had its own shelf on the inside door, as had been the case since time immemorial. Sure enough, she reappeared with the knobby glass pitcher, brimming in amber liquid and wagon wheel slices of lemon, cradled in her hands like a plump infant. At age ten, Amanda had chipped a tooth on one of the hefty matching glasses to that set.</p><p>"You'll see." Ouise took down three of the glasses from the cupboard now, depositing them heavily on the countertop. The things had survived at least thirty-odd years with her, they must be the toughest glassware on earth. "We'll put some meat on those bones before you head back up north."</p><p>"Goody, just what I need," Olivia said, smoothing the dress down her hips and belly, with a forlorn little pout. She seldom complained about her weight, but she could be found sighing in front of the mirror from time to time, that same expression on her face.</p><p>They had both been overindulging in the past couple months—compensating for a long, lean winter—especially since Amanda's birthday in April. Personally, she thought Olivia looked better than ever. She was actually eating now, instead of just picking at whatever Amanda had on her plate or skipping meals altogether; her eyes were brighter, a youthful glow in her cheeks replacing the haunted look that had seemed permanent in recent years; even her hair and nails, already luxuriant enough to get her on the cover of <em>Allure</em>, were healthier and more radiant than they had been since before Lewis.</p><p>If Amanda were a self-conscious woman, she might have felt intimidated by the overabundance of beauty. On the contrary, it filled her with nothing but pride. She was the luckiest son of a bitch who ever dusted the red clay off her boots and hightailed it outta Georgia.</p><p>"You look good, baby," Amanda murmured, enjoying the view as Olivia took a seat, bending forward to smooth her skirt in the back. The wrap dress wasn't especially low cut, but it didn't take much with attributes as distinct as the captain's. All at once, Amanda's cheeks warmed and she called out for extra ice as Ouise plunked cubes into the glasses.</p><p>"Are you still hot, love?" Olivia cocked her head in concern, reaching back to rummage through her tote hooked on the acorn-shaped knob of the chair. She withdrew the folded fan, snapped it open, and sent a gust of air in Amanda's direction. "I hope you're not having an allergic reaction to that sting. Oh, that reminds me—do you have any aloe, Ouise?"</p><p>"You got stung, Jolene? One of my attack bees get hold of ya? Knew I raised 'em right." Ouise's voice came out muffled and distant when she ducked behind the counter, shuffling things around in the corner cabinet, a lazy Susan where Grandmama had always stored the sweets.</p><p>"I'm okay," Amanda said, offering Olivia a soft, caressing smile. For the old bat behind the counter, she added a dash of salt to her tone. "Ornery as you are, I'd 'spect you to be using wasps or hornets. Pro'ly come shootin' out yer hoo-ha every time you bend over, anyway."</p><p>Olivia's scandalized "'Manda!" was drowned out by Ouise's guffawing as the older woman raised to her full height, a sugar bowl in one hand and a jar of honey in the other. She set both down on a serving tray, loaded on the glasses and pitcher of sweet tea, and clomped over to the table with the spread. "Use honey," she announced, sliding the jar and a spoon across the table like an old-time barkeep, to be intercepted by a startled but quick-reflexed Olivia. "Works just as well as aloe, and it smells better."</p><p>"Tastes better too," Amanda commented, assuming an innocent expression when Olivia shot her a look and Ouise glanced between them suspiciously. Amanda had been after the captain to incorporate more food into their foreplay ever since a highly successful experiment with strawberries and chocolate syrup a few weeks prior.</p><p>("Biscuits and honey?" Olivia had asked, an eyebrow quirked skeptically. "Do you realize how sticky that would be? And crumby?"</p><p>"Not when you're the biscuit." Amanda had descended then, grinning devilishly, and wiped that smirk right off her captain's face.)</p><p>Under the watchful eyes of Ouise and Amanda, Olivia fiddled with the buckle on the Mason jar until she lifted the correct tab and the lid sprang open. She flushed faintly, noticeable only in contrast with the pristine whiteness of her dress. For a moment, she debated what to do with the spoon—trying to decide the least messy method of application, no doubt—finally scooping up a dab of honey on just the tip.</p><p>"Y'all don't do much cookin' up there in New York City, do you?" Ouise observed, suppressing her amusement and dismay, although just barely. It was the most decorum she had shown in years. This was the same woman who once advised a preacher's wife, in the middle of worship service, to wear a more supportive bra next Sunday, lest she "knock someone out with them tiddies." (Before Amanda's time, but a major parable in her family lore and probably recorded somewhere in the annals of Loganville.)</p><p>"Does reheating takeout count?" Palm poised under the spoon, Olivia rounded behind Amanda's chair and squinted in the vicinity of the bee sting. She started to protest when Amanda stretched across the table and fished the reading glasses from her tote, but she slid them on without complaint when they were offered up. "And I made chicken and dumplings once. Sort of."</p><p>Caught off guard by the comment, Amanda studied Olivia's expression, trying to gauge the emotion behind it as the captain drew near, smelling of rosemary-mint, sunscreen, and a hint of perspiration. And now, honey. She didn't look or sound upset, but Amanda's gaze flickered to the ghostline scar on her left hand, nestled at the crook of her thumb. Best to change the subject anyway. That innocuous little line concealed a network of much deeper, more damaging scars underneath.</p><p>"So, where's Grandmama?" Amanda asked, before Ouise could get out any wisecracks about Olivia's lack of experience in the kitchen. She ladled a generous helping of sugar into her glass—Grandmama's tea had always been a little weak—and clinked the spoon around, stirring up an amber tornado.</p><p>"Probably off somewhere huntin' for your manners," said Ouise distractedly, her eyes tracking Olivia's every move, from dabbing the pad of her index finger in the honey to glossing the side of Amanda's neck with it, finger spiraling the sting. "Since when'd you start interrupting your elders, child?"</p><p>Amanda feigned a sheepish look, tapping her spoon on the brim of the glass and turning it over to nurse the sugary moisture from the bowl. <em>I dunno</em>, she hummed around the tongue depressor. Her aunt imitated the flippant little noise and rolled her eyes in exasperation.</p><p>"She's taking a nap. Restin' up so she can go to the fair tonight."</p><p>"The fair?" Amanda gave a strangled cough on her first sip of the tea. She'd gotten it far too sweet, even by her saccharine-loving standards. Ouise must have made this batch. "I'm okay," she said, patting the hand Olivia had traded from smoothing on the honey to cuffing her lightly on the upper back. "Why the hell's she going to the fair? She had a stroke the other day."</p><p>"You expect a little thing like that to stop Laidee? To hear her tell it, she just had some bad indigestion. She's gonna pitch a fit that y'all come down here for a case of the vapors." Ouise grinned into her tea, took a slug, and circulated a resultant chunk of ice around in her mouth. "Bathsheba tell you she was at death's door?"</p><p>Bathsheba was Ouise's nickname for Beth Anne, who had complained as a teenager that Aunt Hel's swamp-mutt accent made her name sound like <em>Bath Anne</em>. Poor Olivia stood back, sucking excess honey from her finger and listening in on the conversation as if it were in a foreign language. (Parts of it actually were when Ouise started muttering about her niece in some of the more colorful Louisiana-French terms that had gotten Amanda's mouth washed out with soap for repeating as a child.)</p><p>"Yeah, something like that," Amanda said, then leaned her head back on the headrest to gaze upside down at Olivia as she returned to her seat. "Feels better already. Thanks, darlin'."</p><p><strong>. . .</strong> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Secret's in the Sauce</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm so glad y'all like Aunt Ouiser. She was a blast to write. :) Here's another (short-ish) chapter of Amanda's nutty but lovable relatives.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 3:</strong> Secret's in the Sauce</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"Feels better already. Thanks, darlin'."</em>
</p><p>"Mm-hmm." Olivia hesitated to hand over the spoon Amanda was reaching for, but she relented quickly when the pouty bottom lip came into play. That always got her. "I suppose a little is—"</p><p>Confiscating the honey jar, Amanda scooped out a full tablespoon with the utensil and drizzled it into her tea, swirled it around, then sucked the remainder from the spoon like a kid mouthing a lollipop. "Hmwhu?" she asked, in response to a sigh from Olivia and a curious look from Ouise.</p><p>Neither got a chance to answer, because a moment later, Adélaïde Brooks made her entrance, brightly colored kaftan billowing around her trim frame—still in decent shape for eighty; Amanda had plenty of good years ahead of her, she noted with vague satisfaction—and her white-blonde hair pulled back in a girlish half ponytail. She was still visiting the hairdresser too, from the looks of it: her toffee-colored lowlights were salon-fresh, and damned if they didn't shave about ten years off her appearance.</p><p>Her gait was a little slower than Amanda remembered, though not so diminished that it prevented her from floating into the room like a large, octogenarian butterfly. Beth Anne and Kim had come by their flair for the dramatic honestly, but theirs was a twisted, mean-spirited version of Grandmama Brooks' airy, showboat personality. Dean Rollins had poisoned the family well. Wasn't it just like a man.</p><p>"I knew I heard comp'ny," said Grandmama, swooping down on Amanda in a flutter of florals in every shade of the rainbow. A hug from Grandmama Brooks was somewhat akin to that parachute game from kindergarten gym class, where everyone lifted the edge of a nylon canopy and tried to bring the inflated dome down on whoever ran underneath. Except the elderly woman smelled like lilacs and talcum powder, not applesauce, dried boogers, or that sawdust stuff janitors used to absorb vomit.</p><p>"My Mandy's here." Grandmama wrapped both arms around Amanda from behind, squeezing her shoulders and rocking her side to side. She gave a warm little hum—the way hugs were supposed to sound, like the embracer could just eat the embraced right up—and smooched the side of Amanda's face no less than five times in rapid succession, also with sound effects. "Ooh, child, you smell like a honeycomb."</p><p>Before Amanda could explain about the sting, Grandmama gasped as if she'd just flown over a sheer rockface in a banking helicopter. Amanda looked out at the garden, expecting to see a wild grizzly or a masked bandit, judging by that reaction. But when she glanced back and followed her grandmother's eyeline, it pointed straight at Olivia.</p><p>The captain looked like a deer trapped in the headlights, her eyes blown wide by the shock of being singled out with such intensity. Poor Liv. Amanda should have spent a little more time prepping her to meet the family. In hindsight, "They're kinda . . . demonstrative," had been putting it mildly, but she hadn't wanted to scare Olivia off. Amanda's last visit home was so long ago, she'd told herself that age and deteriorating health had probably mellowed out the old women. Apparently her betting skills were even rustier than she thought.</p><p>"And who is this divine creature?" Grandmama Brooks didn't wait for a response, instead going straight for Olivia, arms outstretched. Amanda was about to warn the older woman not to grab Olivia from behind—that trigger had resurfaced lately, and Amanda had no one but herself to blame—but she went for the face, cupping it in her knotted hands, the one physical trait that truly showed her age. Years of kneading sourdough.</p><p>"My Lord, this face," Grandmama gushed, turning the apprehensive countenance this way and that, taking it in from every angle. "Lauren Bacall and Sophia Loren wouldn't know what hit them. What is your name, dear heart? Audrey? Grace?"</p><p>Amanda also should have mentioned that her grandmother had a thing for old movie stars. But Olivia was keeping her composure for the most part, looking only slightly rattled by the old lady attached to her face like a succubus who feasted on the beauty of younger women.</p><p>"Olivia," said Olivia, just her eyes turned upward, gazing through a brush stroke of dark lashes, as if she were taking communion. She really did have a face meant for the screen; that photogenic quality and her natural eloquence had earned her a role as the media darling of the NYPD in recent years, much to her dismay and that of a few lower-ranking assholes who had started a rumor that she'd slept with Dodds to make captain. (Amanda didn't know which precinct, but if she ever found out, so help her God . . .) "Benson."</p><p>"Captain Olivia Benson, sister," chimed in Aunt Ouise, idly stirring sugar into her sweet tea and eyeing Olivia as though she wanted to stir <em>her</em> around in the glass next. "But we're calling her Bébé. She pronounces it <em>dumplings</em> 'stead of dumplins, she's never had etouffee, and she's JoJo's 'lady friend.' Although the way they bill and coo over each other, you'd think they were on their honeymoon."</p><p>Summoning every ounce of sarcasm she possessed—which was quite a bit—Amanda fixed a tight smile on her aunt and said, "Thanks, Ouiser. You're a mensch."</p><p>"What did you just call me? That some kinda fancy New York cuss word? Laidee, get the soap."</p><p>"Oh, Lord." Amanda snorted at the threat, but truth be told, she could instantly taste the gold nugget of Dial in the back of her throat, and she almost gagged. She had gotten the soap a lot as a kid. Even more than Kim, who always worked up some crocodile tears, sniveled an apology, and got off scot-free. "It ain't cussin', it's Yiddish for, like, a good, stand-up person. Probably why you've never heard of it."</p><p>While Ouiser scoffed and grumbled, Amanda turned her attention back to Olivia, whose face was still being admired like an exceptional bloom from the backyard garden. Time to rescue her before Adélaïde decided to lavish praise on the equally attractive figure below. "'Member, Grandmama, I told you about Liv a while back. How she's my boss, and we're together now. As more than friends."</p><p>Olivia's eyes slanted down from the old woman's adoring gaze to Amanda, her posture stiffening just enough to be noticeable—to Amanda, at least—as if she were bracing for impact. Amanda reached for the captain's hand, resting on the table beside her untouched sweet tea, and gave it a comforting squeeze.</p><p>"Oh, that's right," Grandmama exclaimed, releasing Olivia's upturned face to fuss at her own hair in an absentminded pantomime.</p><p>She'd never been forgetful in her younger years: she could quote scripture better—and more compassionately—than any preacher Amanda knew; played any gospel tune (or Chubby Checker, if you begged hard enough) on the organ without ever looking at a piece of sheet music; and whipped up everything from barbecue to beignets without cracking a cookbook. Now, she couldn't remember a little thing like her favorite grandchild meeting the love of her life. The stroke had done some damage after all.</p><p>It hadn't affected her sweet disposition, though.</p><p>"Well, that makes you family then, doesn't it?" she said, and wrapped Olivia in one of her sparrow-swoop hugs, with all the same affectionate noises she'd used on Amanda. She saved the squeaky kisses for a later date, which was probably best, although Olivia beamed at being welcomed so warmly—into the embrace and the family (this part of it, anyway).</p><p>As if Grandmama could read minds, as well as the tea leaves she professed to be fluent in—and hadn't that been the talk of Walton county for two decades running—she returned Olivia to arm's length, and commented, "My daughter said you were an eyeful, but I had no idea. She exaggerates sometimes. I should have known my Mandy would find herself a keeper."</p><p>That set Amanda and Olivia both to beaming, and Ouise to snickering into her tea. The older woman had always teased Amanda about her "fellas"; obviously it wasn't going to be any different with her lady. Didn't matter. The captain was a keeper and Grandmama-approved. Ouise was just jealous she hadn't seen Olivia first.</p><p>"Pull up a chair 'n sit a spell, sister."</p><p>"No no," said Olivia, hastening to stand, a hand out to discourage Adélaïde from going after the fourth chair to the small dining set—the large one with the extension leaf and padded seats (these were solid wood and hell on the tailbone) was in the dining room—positioned under the landline on the wall. "Have my seat. I can—"</p><p>"Sit here, Grandmama," Amanda cut in, tugging Olivia back down by the hand she was still holding onto. She got to her feet before the captain could argue, pulling the chair out for her grandmother. "I have to pee, anyway. Ouisee's tea went right through me."</p><p>"How could it go right through you when ya ain't had but one little bitty sip?" Ouise was halfway through her drink, the ice cubes melding into a single misshapen chunk, sweat beads trickling down the sides of the glass.</p><p>For some reason it hadn't really felt like being home to Amanda, until she saw that ring of moisture beneath her great-aunt's glass of sweet tea. She had the sudden urge to kick off her sandals and run around barefooted in Grandmama's sprinklers; to check if there was a box of Flintstones Push-Ups waiting for her in the freezer. She wouldn't, but the thought made her smile.</p><p>"Small bladder," she said, patting her lower abdomen. She actually had experienced a few urinary issues since last year, but according to her doctor, it was a minor kidney problem, not the bladder, and nothing to be overly concerned about. (<em>Say that to my face when I'm on a stakeout and there's no public restroom nearby, doc</em>, she'd thought at him.) Grandmama and Ouise didn't know anything about last year's events, though, and Amanda intended on keeping it that way.</p><p>She trailed her fingers along Olivia's arm on the way by, giving the captain a wink of encouragement before leaving her to fend for herself with the old women, who would undoubtedly wheedle the life story out of her by the time Amanda returned. Or so Amanda believed, until she got back to the kitchen and found it abandoned, save for the pitcher and three dripping glasses of tea.</p><p>Crap, her aunt and grandmama had kidnapped her girlfriend.</p><p>"Uh, y'all?" she called out, expecting a reply from the parlor (where the family albums were kept in a hutch carved by her granddaddy) or the air conditioned sunroom (where Grandmama worked on puzzles and Ouise read the newspaper, because the lighting was good). As a kid, she'd loved to sleep in that room with the windows up, the crickets and the bullfrogs her lullaby. Much better than the tune of her mama and daddy screaming downstairs.</p><p>Met by silence, she took a perfunctory glance out the kitchen window and did a double-take. Strolling along the garden path were Grandmama, arm in arm with Olivia, and Ouise, bringing up the rear—and watching each sashay of Olivia's—hands tucked deep in the pockets of her overalls.</p><p>"Good Lord," Amanda muttered, shaking her head at the empty room as she marched for the back door, located just inside the kitchen entryway. "It's five thousand degrees out, people are havin' strokes, and y'all decide to go tiptoe through the tulips."</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. My Colors Are Blush and Bashful</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Who's ready for chapter 4? Thank you to everyone who's left reviews for the previous chapters so far (on ff.net, and the one reviewer here on AO3). You guys rock.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 4:</strong> My Colors Are Blush and Bashful</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"It's five thousand degrees out, people are havin' strokes, and y'all decide to go tiptoe through the tulips."</em>
</p><p>She was still complaining under her breath and dodging imaginary bees, most of which turned out to be shadows or the whirligigs dropping from Granddaddy's prized red maple, when she caught up to the other women. Honestly, with the shade from the maple and all the other trees that played Ring Around the Rosy with the backyard, the heat was somewhat tolerable in the garden. But that didn't stop Amanda from demanding, "What in the Sam Hill are y'all doin' out here?" as she hip-checked Ouise in passing and sailed on to link arms on Olivia's free side.</p><p>"Tryin' to sneak away from your rotten behind," Ouise barked, though a smile could be heard beneath the gruff tone. "We got us some stories to tell Bébé about all the <em>gris-gris</em> you put on this family."</p><p>"Gree gree?" Olivia cocked her eyebrow at Amanda, but it was Grandmama who sang out:</p><p>"You're the only hex put on this family, Heloise. You leave my baby girl alone. She is an angel, and I won't have you filling this precious child's head with a lot of nonsense about her." Grandmama patted Olivia, the precious child in question, on the hand, her wrist load of bangles clacking together.</p><p>Amanda threw her snarkiest laugh ("Heh!") over one shoulder, then added a genuine giggle when Olivia caught a glimpse of the waist-high replica of the statue of David. He stood among the leafy overgrowth in Grandmama's strawberry patch, a plastic doll arm for a penis. Amanda had been the one to do the deed, while playing baseball in the expanse of grass several yards away; it was Kim who tried to disguise the broken "boy thing" with the arm from her hand-me-down P.J. Sparkles doll. The rather disturbing result was a phallus that looked like the proboscis of a horror movie creature. Aunt Ouise had roared with laughter when she saw it, literally rolling around in the dirt.</p><p>"Speaking of sweet baby girls," continued Grandmama, chirpy as the songbirds in the magnolia tree and oblivious to Olivia's faltering step when they neared the statue. "Do you like tomatoes, Miss Livvy?"</p><p>At the sound of her second new nickname within the last half hour, Olivia snapped to attention, prying her eyes from the freakishly endowed David, dark hair swinging around her shoulders. "Yes," she said too quickly, then noticed the vines of cherry tomatoes staked into the ground, well away from David and his manhood. "Oh, um, yes. They're delicious. I've never tasted them straight from the garden before."</p><p>The captain didn't know it, but she had just said the magic words. Grandmama Brooks practically fluttered with delight as she plucked a handful of dark red bulbs from one of the vines. "Well, you must taste my Baby Girls," she said, plopping the plumpest, juiciest-looking tomato into Olivia's upturned palm. "Much sweeter and more tender than Ouise's SunSugars. Hers are tougher'n an ol' cob."</p><p>"So, they take after whichever gardener plants them, then?" Olivia asked slyly, side-eyeing Ouise with a wicked little smirk.</p><p>"You wound me, Bébé." Ouise clapped a hand over her heart, then reached for one of the orangey SunSugars, inserting the full thing inside her cheek like a jawbreaker. She popped it with her back teeth, tomato juice spurting from her lips as if she were spitting chaw. "Here I thought you was a nice young lady."</p><p>"Oh, hush your mouth, sister. My Livvy is an absolute angel and she's got you pegged." As she spoke, Grandmama passed another of the larger Sweet Baby Girls to Amanda, saving the smallest for herself. She ate it in a single bite, waving the younger women to sample theirs as well.</p><p>Amanda had loved eating fruits and vegetables straight out of the garden as a kid, but at the moment, raw tomato, warmed by the afternoon sun, didn't sound all that appetizing. As a matter of fact, it made her belly flip-flop, so she did what any self-respecting adult would do and hid the cherry tomato behind her back. Everyone else was too busy watching Olivia to notice—and with good reason. The captain was taking her first taste of Southern homegrown.</p><p>Well, fruit at least.</p><p>She bit the tomato cautiously in half, one hand cupped underneath it, protecting her pretty dress, while she slurped faintly at the drippings, her puckered lips milking the leftover half. Poor Ouise was going to have a coronary if she kept that up.</p><p>"Mm, mm-hmm," Olivia hummed, chewing with her mouth closed and wiping at her damp chin. She gave a thumbs up to Grandmama Brooks, the other hand angled over her mouth, shielding against potential spatter. She polished off the remaining bite, brushing away the juice that ran down the inside of her lovely tanned arm. Maybe warm tomato was more appealing than Amanda had originally thought . . .</p><p>"Best cherry tomato I've ever eaten," was Olivia's final verdict, once the mouthful was gone and the two old women were still gazing expectantly at her. "So sweet it could be candy."</p><p>Grandmama gave an animated clap, her rattling bracelets creating the illusion that the bones in her knobbly hands were clacking together. Ouise sighed and helped herself to another SunSugar, this time containing most of the spritz behind closed lips. Didn't stop her from talking with her mouth full, though: "Y'all can keep your squishy little candy tomatoes. I like mine firm and tart. Sumpin' I can sink my teeth into."</p><p>The old coot was feasting her honey eyes on Olivia again, as if she would prefer to sink her Polident-soaked teeth into a <em>pair</em> of firmer, tarter somethings. Olivia did look especially fetching in the sunlight, her hair and skin agleam, her eyes burnished gold. And that dress—Lord have mercy.</p><p>But seeing your great-aunt lust over your woman like they were Adam and Eve about to defile Eden was only amusing for so long, and then it just got weird. Amanda had reached that point. "Okay, Ouiser, why don't you walk it off," she said, swiping the fishing hat from the older woman's head and using it to swat her away. "Go yell at the chipmunks for getting into the bird feeders or somethin'. And take Grandmama with you, so she can keep your wrinkly old butt in line."</p><p>"Come along, Laidee, I reckon these two <em>rats musqués</em> are about to engage in some sparkin'." Ouise flashed a knowing grin, catching with one hand the hat Amanda pitched back at her, flopping it lazily onto her head, and doffing it at the David statue as she and her sister moseyed ahead.</p><p>"Rahm-yoo-what?" Olivia asked, when the older women were out of earshot and Amanda sidled up to wrap both arms around her waist. Ouiser hadn't been wrong in her assessment about the sparking.</p><p>Amanda rolled her eyes and shrugged off the ridiculous insult. Her great-aunt only teased the people for whom she had the deepest affection. "Muskrats, I think."</p><p>"Ah." Olivia chuckled, resting her palms lightly on Amanda's shoulders. She raked her fingers up through the back of Amanda's hair, gathering the sweaty tendrils that had fallen from the clip and clung to the skin underneath. "You didn't tell me you spoke French."</p><p>"Oh, <em>oui oui</em>." Amanda nodded gravely. "I know, like, every word for shrimp, and I can cuss like a Cajun sailor, <em>cher</em>. By the way, that reminds me . . ." She leaned in, purring the rest into the captain's ear: "<em>Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?</em>"</p><p>Olivia pinkened at that, although it might have been the heat of the sun and of the blonde cozied up against her. She toyed with Amanda's ear, tracing a finger along the outer shell, fiddling with the lobe. "You bet I do, Detective. But you better snatch me up before Ouiser makes her move. On top of holding out on the French thing, you also failed to mention that your aunt is super duper gay."</p><p>"Did I?"</p><p>"Uh-huh."</p><p>"Oops. Well, it's kind of just common knowledge 'round here, but no one ever really talks about it. They just say she's a horse of a differ'nt color." Amanda rocked side to side, swaying Olivia along with her, the hems of their skirts tickling her shins. "She's not making you uncomfortable, is she? I can tell her to put her eyeballs back in that giant head of hers and stuff a sock in it."</p><p>"No, don't. It's sort of . . . sweet?" Olivia scrunched up her nose and shoulder in unison, as if they were controlled by the same pull-cord. "And a little inappropriate. But mostly sweet."</p><p>"Are you kiddin' me? It's horrifying. I'm gonna need twice as much therapy by the time we get out of here." Amanda heaved a world-weary sigh and reached up to brush back the hair from Olivia's shoulders. "Never knew she had a type. And that apparently you're it."</p><p>"What, tough-skinned and acidic?" Olivia nodded to the vines of SunSugar tomatoes, a wry smile on her lips.</p><p>Seizing the opportunity for some sleight of hand, Amanda tucked the hair behind Olivia's ears this time, producing the uneaten Sweet Baby Girl from her palm. "Nope. Delicious and succulent. Prettiest in the bunch."</p><p>"How did you—" Olivia stared at the cherry tomato as if she believed, just for a split second, that it had actually come from inside her ear.</p><p>Grinning, Amanda presented the fruit to Olivia's slightly parted lips, prettier than all the petals blooming in the garden behind her. "Saved mine for you. Wadn't in the mood for 'maters," she said, encouraging Olivia to take a bite by miming the act herself, like she was feeding a reluctant child. The captain obeyed, but there was nothing childlike about the way she clasped Amanda's wrist, lowered her mouth to the fruit, lips welcoming it to teeth, teeth sinking deep . . .</p><p>And a spray of tomato juice droplets flicking Amanda directly in the face. No need to run through Grandmama's sprinklers anymore.</p><p>"Omigur, Um surry," Olivia said, around the mouthful, but behind the hand she dragged across her lips and chin—the same one she smoothed over Amanda's cheeks and brow—she was snickering. "Did I get it in your eyes?"</p><p>"Nah, I think I closed 'em in time." Amanda widened her eyes and took a few experimental blinks, discovering it was true. She hadn't just been blinded by the woman she loved, with a cherry tomato in a backyard garden in piddly ol' Loganville, GA. More importantly, neither of their dresses had gotten splashed during the impromptu christening. "But thanks for that. I've heard tomato facials are great for the pores."</p><p>Olivia giggled, drying the slope of Amanda's nose with the side of her hand. "I really am sorry, love. If it's any consolation, you look extra cute with freckles." She offered over the next bite, lower lip plumping into a small, concerned pout when Amanda still refused the morsel. "Are you feeling all right, sweetheart? You're a little peaked."</p><p>"I'll stick with my dimple. You're the only freckleface in this relationship, Cap'n." Amanda hugged her tighter around the waist, pulling them flush against each other, belly to belly, breast to breast. "And I got me the prettiest girl in all of New York, Georgia, or Loosiana. Yes, ma'am, I'm feelin' just fine."</p><p>When they kissed, there in the garden—David the anatomical marvel on one side, a sea of colorful flora on the other, and Ouise hollering at chipmunks in the distance—it tasted like tomatoes fresh from the vine, it smelled like honeysuckle and magnolia, it felt like the sun, warm on Amanda's skin.</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I Love You More'n My Luggage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't think there's anything I need to point out about this chapter, other than... well, I love me a good county fair, so this chapter was inevitable at some point in the Devilishverse. Enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 5:</strong> I Love You More'n My Luggage</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>"Come on, Big Daddy. Mama needs a new pair of shoes!"</p><p>The mallet was twice as heavy when you were laughing, Olivia discovered, and she let the weighted head drop next to her foot, the ground coughing up a plume of brick-colored dust. Amanda's warning not to wear open-toe shoes had turned out to be good advice. Without the sneakers Olivia had traded her sandals for, she never would have made it this far down the midway. And she definitely would have been taking her chances with all the dung that was strewn around the fairgrounds, just waiting for the next unsuspecting foot to come along.</p><p>It was her first county fair, and despite the pervasive smell of barnyard animals and their feces, and the sun slung low in the sky like a hot, glaring pendulum, she was having fun. Her once-white sneakers and the cuffs of her jeans were caked in dirt—at least, she hoped that's all it was—but they were just cheap, spur-of-the-moment buys from T.J. Maxx, a store she had never stepped foot in until earlier that evening.</p><p>"Darlin', you look insanely hot in that dress," Amanda had observed, while they were still at Adélaïde and Ouise's house, "and it makes me wanna do ungodly things to ya. But trust me, you're gonna wanna wear pants."</p><p>Just as she had been right about the shoes, the detective's suggestion to pick up a change of clothes before attending the fair was a good call. Olivia couldn't have gone on the swing ride in a dress, unless she wanted to flash half the population of Loganville, and she certainly couldn't have assumed the proper stance for her current endeavor—the strongman game—in a skirt. It was that strength tester thing where you hit the lever with a mallet, launching a puck up the scale, with the objective of ringing the bell at the very top; Olivia had seen the apparatus at Coney Island many times, but until the Walton County Fair barker ("Carney, babe. We call them carneys," Amanda had corrected) challenged her, she'd never felt the need to try it.</p><p>That was what she got for wearing a tank top and pinning her hair up, leaving the nape of her neck exposed—and thus the tattoo upon it. "Those guns might be impressive in the Big Apple, sweet cheeks, but they ain't no match for my long woody . . . mallet," the carney had drawled into the karaoke mic that made his voice flat and featureless. (Much like the voice in the threatening phone calls she'd gotten last year, come to think of it.)</p><p>Men had been making unsolicited and lewd comments to her since her early teens—something in the way she moved seemed to draw their attention like moths to a flame. Probably her confident stride; men often couldn't handle a woman who could handle herself. Usually she either ignored the harassment and kept walking or she yelled back at the creeps. But few of them were suggestively waggling the wooden end of a giant hammer at her in the meantime, and try as she might, she couldn't let that go. Not with Amanda right beside her, sweet as can be in a flowy yellow tank top—the daisy print made Olivia want to kiss the blonde senseless—and stretchy light wash jeans. The outfit was only part of it, though. Something about seeing Amanda in her hometown had awakened Olivia's fiercely protective side.</p><p>And maybe a little bravado.</p><p>"You don't have to," Amanda had murmured, as Olivia removed her sunglasses and did a few warmup shoulder stretches. In the background, the carney was prancing and hooting with delight at his successful baiting tactics. He must have a very small penis.</p><p>"Stand back, sweetheart," had been Olivia's winking reply, after she pretended to spit in each palm, rubbed them together, and hefted the mallet. "I'm gonna win you somethin' pretty."</p><p>Then Amanda had shouted that ridiculous comment from behind the safety line and threw Olivia completely off her game. "Did you just call me 'big daddy'?" she asked, when her laughter subsided.</p><p>She'd briefly noted that Amanda was a bit more invested in the outcome of the midway games than the average fairgoer—so far they had popped balloons with playing darts, used water guns to hit a target in a clown's mouth and race Care Bears to the top, tossed plastic rings onto wooden novelty canes—and part of her couldn't help wondering if the anticipation was too much like gambling. But she held her tongue. Sometimes it was better to just have fun while you had the chance.</p><p>"And in case you forgot, I bought you new shoes right before we came here," she added, referring to the white Converse knock-offs, identical to her own, on Amanda's slender feet. Less than ten bucks a pair. She had never gotten such a bargain on footwear in her life.</p><p>"Yeah, but these are all dusty," said Amanda, wearing her prettiest pout as she turned out one foot and then the other, gazing down at the sneakers. "I want new ones. Ooh, maybe cowboy boots this time! Swing that hammer for me, hot stuff."</p><p>Well, it was better than "big daddy," at least. And she much preferred being catcalled by Amanda to the greasy come-ons of the greasy carney, who had lit up a cigarette and crouched down, monkey-style, on the corner of the strongman platform. Luckily, the smoke filtered in a different direction, so Olivia didn't catch a whiff, but she did catch a glimpse of the carney staring at her ass and licking his meth mouth of rickety, mostly absent teeth. His leering grin looked like a rotten corn cob with most of the kernels plucked out.</p><p>It was time to show off her muscles and get the hell out of there before Tweaky Tweakerson used whatever powers of cognition he had left to figure out that she and Amanda were a couple (that conversation would not go well, especially if Olivia was forced to knock out his last few teeth). She hoisted the mallet once more, got into position in front of the strength tester, and said a silent prayer to the big carnival master in the sky that she wasn't about to make a fool of herself.</p><p>In all her years as a cop, she had never swung an axe—that was for the FDNY guys, in their turnout gear; she hadn't even used one while living a semi-communal life in the wilds of Oregon, where her business had been preserving trees, not chopping them down. But when she swung the mallet, first shoving it off her shoulder and then harnessing the momentum for the downward stroke, she pictured every woodcutting scene she could remember from the movies and tried to emulate that motion.</p><p>She hit the lever dead-on and the puck rocketed skyward, shooting past 50 points, 60, 70 . . . it lost some speed at 80, seemed poised to drop like a stone at 90, but gave one final, valiant stretch and kissed the silver school bell with the daintiest <em>ting!</em> imaginable—or audible. And the crowd went wild.</p><p>The crowd being Amanda, who let out a whoop and brandished the cane she'd won at the ring toss, about as flimsy as a toothpick, at the carney. "Ha ha," she taunted, looking a little like a maniacal marching band leader. Albeit a cute blonde one. "Give the lady her prize, sucka!"</p><p>Tweaky had lost interest in Olivia, her bare arms, and her commanding strut, in favor of some barely legal girls wearing some barely existent shorts at the neighboring booth. He thrust a stuffed alpaca, rainbow-striped and about the same size as Frannie, at her from a storage bin full of the colorful creatures and practically ran her off the platform so he could take center stage and wolf-whistle at the girls.</p><p>"Asshat," Amanda muttered, shooting him a dirty look and offering Olivia a hand down from the slight ledge at the end of the platform.</p><p>"Aw, I think he's kinda cute," Olivia said, stifling a laugh at the horrified expression on the detective's face. They were well out of the guy's earshot—if he could hear anything over the meth bugs scurrying around beneath his skin—and poking fun at a sleazy stranger behind his back never hurt anyone, especially when it elicited such a strong reaction from Amanda.</p><p>"Gross. I think <em>I'm</em> gonna barf." But Amanda buried her face in the alpaca's fur instead, hugging it around the neck when Olivia presented it to her. "Thanks, baby. Didn't hurt your shoulder, did it?"</p><p>It did, actually. Not much, but there had been a definite twinge when Olivia rotated her arms forward, bringing the mallet down with all her strength. A small price to pay to see Amanda snuggling the alpaca stuffie the way Matilda doted on her baby dolls.</p><p>"Nope. What are you going to name her?" Olivia asked, honking the stuffed animal's snout like it was a bike horn. She got a kick out of how quickly Amanda pulled names out of thin air and bestowed them on inanimate objects. The bright, fluffy toy was bound to inspire something fantastic from that clever blonde head of hers.</p><p>"Hmm. How about Corn Dog with Extra Mustard?"</p><p>"It's a little wordy, I—" Olivia stopped short, turning back to see why the detective's reply had faded, hand slipping from hers. "You can't be serious," she said, gazing up at the concession stand with vaguely the same disgust Amanda had expressed for the carney.</p><p>Any concern she had felt over Amanda's earlier lack of appetite disappeared the moment they arrived at the fair and the blonde made a beeline for the vinegar fries, consuming nearly the whole cup by herself. Since then, she'd eaten part of a massive tenderloin sandwich (Olivia could hardly wrap her mind around the monstrosity, let alone her lips; she'd taken a few tentative bites and discarded the rest), two fried pickles (Olivia did enjoy those), and a sugar waffle (those too).</p><p>It was an awfully lot of fried food for one small person, but Olivia couldn't bring herself to comment. Amanda was happy as hell stuffing her face with all that junk, and Olivia wasn't going to spoil her fun with warnings about heart disease and high cholesterol. But a corn dog did seem like a bit much at this point. She didn't want her detective getting sick. "Where on earth are you gonna put it?" Olivia asked, pinching affectionately at Amanda's side and burring in her ear.</p><p>"Got me a hollow leg, 'member?" Amanda knocked on her leg, just above the knee, as if it were indeed empty. Olivia half expected to hear it echo like the Tin Man's chest in <em>The Wizard of Oz</em>. Thankfully it did not. "And I told you corn dogs are my favorite. I can't come to the fair and not get one. That would be like . . . like you leaving Starbucks without a cappuccino. Like taking the kids to the Dairy Queen and not getting them ice cream. Like—"</p><p>"All right, you've made your point. But you're on your own eating this one. Any more grease and I'll have to change my name to Ollie and become a mechanic." Olivia draped her arm across Amanda's lower back, patting her hip right where the peach tattoo resided below the waistband of her jeans. "Let's get in line, JoJo."</p><p>"Bet you'd be sexy as hell in one of those mechanic jumpsuits," Amanda said dreamily, tripping along beside Olivia, the alpaca balanced on her opposite hip, its head extended in front of her like the figurehead on a ship. "Get you a little name patch, some work boots, a bandana for your back pocket. I could be the rich snob who brings her car in for a tuneup and gets taken for a ride . . . "</p><p>It sounded as though Amanda had been planning that one for a while. Maybe they would have to try it out sometime soon. They hadn't done any roleplaying in the past few weeks, although the sex was still good. Oh my God, was it good. Ever since that birthday sex on the abandoned pier, they could barely keep their hands off of each other. Olivia had half a mind to take Amanda's hand right then, lead her off behind the funhouse facade or one of the larger food trucks, and make her scream like she was on The Zipper.</p><p>But she couldn't, of course. Not with all this foot traffic and the fetid, sun-baked garbage lying about—and the animal droppings. "I thought you said corn dog, not horn dog," she replied, twisting a lock of pale hair around her finger and unraveling it down Amanda's back. She'd tried to talk the blonde into wearing her hair up so she didn't get overheated again, but Amanda had insisted on letting it hang. At least it kept Olivia's fingers busy.</p><p>"Heh. That was actually a pretty good one, babe. Daph would be proud." Amanda urged Olivia forward in line with a pat to the rear, a move that Olivia had perfected on her, then slipped a hand into one of the pockets there.</p><p>They were playing it a little fast and loose with the PDAs, considering their surroundings—small, Southern town, big Baptist population—and they had definitely been getting some looks, including one mother who actually turned her child's face away, shielding him from exposure to the evils of two women holding hands. But Amanda hadn't shied away from the touching or the looks, and Olivia was happy to let her set the pace. It was her hometown, and Olivia trusted her judgment about what would be accepted and what wouldn't. She could handle some staring.</p><p>A few moments later, Amanda accepted her corn dog from the woman behind the counter, beaming as if she'd just been handed a bar of twenty-four karat gold, and Olivia shelled out the eight bucks said gold had cost her. She really didn't mind, even when a giant alpaca and a chintzy walking stick were shoved into her arms so Amanda could douse the breaded treat in mustard from a vat with a pump on top.</p><p>She was struggling to see past the rainbow alpaca fluff when Amanda gazed over her shoulder at the sound of a piercing whistle. Loud noises typically got the bigger startle response from Olivia, but this time it was Amanda whose eyes went as round as the cherry tomatoes from Adélaïde Brooks' garden, her skin as white as the powdered sugar on the waffles they'd shared earlier.</p><p>"Shit, it's my daddy," she said, and depressed the pump so hard, mustard oozed down the sides of the corn dog and plopped into the grass below.</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. You Are a Pig From Hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all ready to meet Mean Dean? I've been wanting to write him into the Devilishverse since I started dreaming him up back in <i>The Devil You Know</i>, but then the show had to go and steal my thunder by casting someone other than whom I pictured and not even bothering to name him Dean. (Jim? <i>JIM?!</i>) How rude. And don't even get me started on how Marg Helgenberger should've been cast as Beth Anne. Siiigh. Anyway. Here's chapter 6, lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 6:</strong> You Are a Pig From Hell</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"Shit, it's my daddy."</em>
</p><p>"What? Where?" Olivia turned to look, just as a man of about sixty-five, with a shock of silvery white hair and a goatee that matched it, raised his hand high, called out "Mandy!" and approached them at a trot.</p><p>Without the introductory shout she still would have recognized him. His resemblance to Amanda was uncanny—same glacier blue eyes, with a vaguely feline tilt; same high, defined cheekbones and unobtrusive nose; same slender build, though rangier on him. He even ran like she did, pelting the ground as if the devil were at the heels of his cowboy boots.</p><p>He'd gained a good amount of speed on his way over from the souvenir tent, where blankets adorned by famous faces (Elvis, Johnny Cash, a zombie Marilyn Monroe) swayed on a display wire, and he swept Amanda up at full tilt, nearly plowing both of them into the condiment buffet. Luckily he was lithe and steady on his feet like his daughter too, and he kept them both upright as he spun her around in a haphazard circle, slopping more mustard from the corn dog Amanda held aloft.</p><p>"Hey," Olivia said reflexively, putting out her hand to halt the spinning. Amanda did not look to be enjoying it, and it was much too rowdy for Olivia's liking. She caught the man—Dean, that was his name, she suddenly recalled—by the elbow, buffering the next turn. He broke free easily, but she had slowed him down, and he plunked Amanda unceremoniously back on her feet.</p><p>"Mandy!" he cried again, at full blast. Amanda had definitely inherited her bellow from him.</p><p>"Hey, Daddy." Amanda pinched the corn dog stick at arm's length now, as if the whole thing were leaking mustard, most of which was already on the ground and her fingers. A smattering of gold flecks misted the back of Dean's vest, and a heavy yellow smear brightened one side of the corn dog.</p><p>As Amanda surveyed the mustard castoff and Olivia pilfered a handful of napkins the size of playing cards from a dispenser by the condiments, Dean bit off the tip of the corn dog, exhaling noisily around the steaming bite. It sounded like compressed air released from a canister. "Could use a little more mustard," he said, and grinned at Amanda while he chomped.</p><p>Same dimple.</p><p>"Thanks," Amanda said to Olivia, accepting the wad of napkins and swiping them over the mustard blotches on her fingers. She grimaced at the missing bite of breading and hot dog, then at her father. "What're you doing here?"</p><p>"That any way to greet your old man?" Dean thumbed her chin like a mother wiping food from a child's face, but with none of the gentleness. He had trouble keeping his hands to himself, Olivia noted disapprovingly. "Free country, ain't it? You know I love me a good county fair."</p><p>"Yeah, for the horse and drag races," Amanda muttered as she turned away to pitch the napkins in a big blue barrel by the picnic tables.</p><p>"What's that, now?"</p><p>"Nothing. I meant what are you doing here in Loganville? Thought you was— were down in Savannah." Amanda glanced at Olivia and, under cover of stuffed alpaca, placed a hand at her back, edging her closer.</p><p>For the first time, Dean's gaze landed on Olivia, but he snapped it right back to his daughter, clapped his puffed out chest, and spread his arms wide, as if he were about to belt out "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" from <em>Oklahoma!</em> Instead he said, "You know me, baby," and then sang, "<em>I'm a travelin' man . . . "</em></p><p>He had a good voice. Olivia vaguely remembered Amanda mentioning offhand that he liked to play guitar and sing at open mic nights in the local bars when she was a kid. ("People said he sounded like Conway Twitty," she'd confided, with more than a little pride.) He certainly looked the type in his frayed denim vest, muscle-hugging dark t-shirt, and faded jeans. No cowboy hat, but it was easy to envision one if Olivia squinted just right.</p><p>"Plus, Kimmie called me." Dean put his arms down and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. He had a small paunch beneath his tucked in shirt, but it was probably a recent development. His arms were still powerfully toned. Slim but strong—yet another trait he shared with Amanda. "She told me 'bout Adélaïde and asked me to come up. Couldn't very well say no to my baby girl. Or a chance to see my old stompin' grounds."</p><p>"I'll bet," said Amanda, with a sickly smile. She cast an apologetic look to Olivia, palm smoothing back and forth compulsively at her back, as if she already regretted what she was about to do. "Liv, this is my daddy, Dean Rollins. Daddy, this is Olivia Benson."</p><p>The absence of a relationship descriptor wasn't lost on Olivia, but she didn't take offense. The times she had introduced her mother to someone she was seeing—all of twice—she'd left out dating status as well. As it turned out, Dean didn't need the information anyway.</p><p>"Olivia Benson," he drawled theatrically, giving her extended hand a shake so vigorous, she almost dropped the stick in her other hand. When she grabbed for it, the alpaca slipping from her grasp, he came to the rescue, guiding the stuffed animal back into her arms. She couldn't tell if his palm grazed her nipple on purpose or by accident. "So, you're the lovely lady who stole my little girl's heart away."</p><p>Amanda hadn't seen the sneaky move, and Olivia didn't call him on it. She'd been dealing with men like him most of her life, long before joining the force, and the worst thing you could do was let them know you were rattled. She did grip the alpaca more securely to her chest, while fastening on a tight smile, though. "Mr. Rollins. Nice to finally meet you."</p><p>It wasn't. The stories she had heard about this man—the pain and trauma he had caused his wife and daughters (but especially Amanda)—would have made her instantly dislike him, even if he hadn't just copped a feel. But for Amanda's sake, she could be civil.</p><p>"Nobody calls me Mr. Rollins, little darlin'. Just call me Dean." He flashed a devilish grin, and despite his less than winning behavior, Olivia could see how a woman might fall for him, especially when he was younger, his hair blonder, eyes brighter. The Rollinses certainly had their charms. "Heck, you're family, you might as well call me Daddy."</p><p>Well, one of them did, anyway.</p><p>"Christ, Daddy. Knock it off." Amanda took an angry bite of corn dog, chewing miserably and with a wide open mouth, as if the food were distasteful or made of rubber. She offered over the stick, but there was no way in hell Olivia would put that in her mouth with Dean watching. "How'd you know Liv and me are together? Kim tell you that too?"</p><p>"Kim, Beth Anne, B.J. over at the Texaco, your friend Patty from high school." Dean gestured broadly at the constant stream of people flowing by on the paved path in front of the concession stand. "Y'all are the talk of Loganville, Mandy girl."</p><p>That explained some of the stares they had received even when they weren't holding hands or being affectionate. They were a veritable two woman gay pride parade down in these parts. Y'all.</p><p>"You talked to Mama?" Amanda asked, and promptly choked on her second mouthful of corn dog. Probably all that mustard. She coughed and sputtered into her hand while Olivia thumped a palm on her back and glowered at Dean, who was slapping his knees with laughter.</p><p>"Didn't know me and her kept in touch, eh?" Dean straightened to his full height—maybe five-ten or -eleven, his eye level only slightly above Olivia's—and hung onto the front panels of his vest, very much the silver screen cowpoke. "That's what happens when you run off to the big city and forget your kinfolk. You miss out."</p><p>So much for Olivia being part of the family. He had glanced directly at her when he mentioned the big city—well, at her, then down to her chest, hidden behind the alpaca's head. <em>What's big and rhymes with city</em>? she thought, boring holes into him with her eyes. Sometimes she hated having such a clear insight into the male mind, after years of working and sweating alongside them, years of interrogating the worst ones and listening to their sick fantasies.</p><p>"You can't run out on someone who was never there for you to begin with," she said coolly, ice in her smile, regardless of the warm evening. If she'd learned anything from the South, it was that civility and criticism weren't always mutually exclusive. "It seems to me, you folks are the ones missing out on Amanda's life, which is pretty great, by the way. She's done well for herself. Most parents would be proud."</p><p>Dean wasn't used to women who talked back to him, that much was obvious from the look of mild surprise he turned on Olivia. He recovered quickly, though, his eyes narrowing, his lips in an amused seesaw-slant—deceptively playful, a hint of danger lurking in that sharp incline. He would be terrifying for a frightened, defenseless woman or a little girl to face off against. Luckily Olivia was neither of those.</p><p>More or less recovered from her coughing fit, Amanda broke the palpable tension with a loud croak: "Patty Mullins from high school?" Her arm tensed around Olivia's waist, fingers plucking at one of the belt loops there. "She was never my friend, Daddy. She was the bitchy cheerleader who started the rumor that I prostituted myself to the entire football team. I almost didn't graduate because of her."</p><p>"Well, then this is about to get really awkward." Dean cringed as if it pained him to elaborate, but the very next second, he hawked up a laugh and a glob of saliva. The latter he expelled on the ground in front of Amanda and Olivia, where it glistened among the mustard. Then he let out another shrill whistle, his tongue rippled beneath his top teeth, and beckoned with a rubber-band snap of his arm to someone in the distance. "Hey, Pats. C'mere."</p><p>"Oh my God," Amanda groaned, for the first time that evening looking as though she might actually vomit. She held the half-eaten corn dog up like she was keeping it—and herself—above water. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."</p><p>Patty arrived a moment later in a cloud of smoke and cheap perfume. The smoke was from a long, skinny cigarette (Olivia didn't know cigarettes, but if she had to wager a guess, she would say Virginia Slims); the perfume was from a dime store. She smelled like the pros back home whose transactions were carried out primarily in dark alleys and seedy motel rooms. The ones who called Olivia "honey," while brushing against her on their way past, inquiring if she was looking for a good time. Only recently had it occurred to her that most women, even the ones in uniform, didn't get hit on by other women nearly as often as she did.</p><p>But Patty did not hit on her or attempt to flirt in the least. In fact, the moment she spotted Olivia and Amanda's arms crisscrossed behind each other, she rolled her eyes and sneered. <em>This the bulldyke who turned Mandy into a dirty lesbian?</em> asked that look.</p><p>Yeah, Olivia could read women too. Especially bitchy former cheerleaders who now resembled a cartoon character from <em>King of the Hill</em>.</p><p>"Mandy Rollins!" Patty squealed, her smile just as forced as the excitement in her oddly pitched voice. It vacillated from syllable to syllable, always one note off, like a piano player with her fingers on the wrong keys. She was on the small side, five-four at best, but she pulled Amanda into a hug almost as rough as Dean's had been. "Look at you, girl. Still as pale and skinny as you always was. Don't they have sun in New York City? And all them fancy restaurants? You had a baby, for Christ sakes, where's your titties?"</p><p>In her years as a cop and a New Yorker, Olivia had meant all sorts of people, from every walk of life, and she'd learned not to make snap judgments, learned to give even the most irksome people the benefit of the doubt. But there was no way around it: she did not like this woman. She flinched from the cigarette Patty practically shoved in her face during that stranglehold on Amanda, and she vigorously waved the smoke away from the blonde when Patty finally backed off.</p><p>"Everybody still knows everybody else's business around here, I see," said Amanda, gazing in disgust at her corn dog, which now had a strand of Patty's light brown hair stuck in the mustard, wavering like a cobweb in a bar of early evening sunlight. She turned and pitched the remainder of her favorite fair snack into the same blue barrel as before.</p><p>Under her breath, barely loud enough for Olivia to make out, she mumbled, "And you're still a bunch of ignorant redneck assholes."</p><p>Neither Patty or Dean had overheard; they were too busy cozying up to each other, his arm draped around her shoulders, her hand on his chest. "Well, I got the inside scoop from your daddy. Ain't that right, D?" She stood on tiptoe, lips puckered, and they exchanged a kiss so graphic and carnivorous it belonged in an Animal Planet documentary. Olivia wished she could have covered Amanda's eyes in time, but the blonde was already gaping at the unsavory display, horror-struck.</p><p>Patty was getting the inside scoop, all right.</p><p>"Christ." Amanda blanched, the queasy expression returning to her face, features twisted in a mien usually reserved for the most despicable criminals, the most revolting crimes. "Y'all are . . . together?"</p><p>A giggle escaped Patty's thin, snarly lips, now a DayGlo pink smear that stood out blindingly against her burnt orange self-tanner. With her faded yellow split ends—remnants of an at-home dye job—and chipped blue mani-pedi, she looked like a washed out tie-dye of a person. An eighties throwback better left boxed away in the attic. "Uh-huh. I always had a thing for your daddy back in high school," she said, waving her cigarette at Dean and sending another puff of smoke in Olivia and Amanda's direction. "I'd see him in the stands on Friday nights, wearing them tight jeans and muscle tees, and I knew someday I'd have me a piece of that."</p><p>"Surprised he made you wait." Amanda's smile was stiff and unnatural, just like her posture. She had balled the back of Olivia's tank top into her fist, as if preparing to make a run for it and drag Olivia along with her. "Self-control idn't exactly his strong suit, huh Daddy?"</p><p>The disapproval in Amanda's tone was lost on her father and the woman leeched to his side. They laughed like she had told a gut-buster of a joke, and Patty flourished her cigarette some more, with a sneaky little side-eye at Olivia. If she had been the caterpillar from <em>Alice in Wonderland</em>, blowing shapes and letters from a hookah, the words <em>fuck</em> and <em>you</em> would have materialized in the smoke. Instead, it just wafted into Olivia's face, making her eyes tear and her throat close up, tighter than a noose.</p><p>"Do you mind?" Amanda asked, fanning the air in front of herself and Olivia. She'd been good about the cigarettes lately. As far as Olivia could tell, Amanda hadn't smoked in months; not since that night last February, when Henry Mesner had put Olivia in the hospital—while attempting to put her in the grave—and Amanda showed up at the ER, flush-faced and smelling of tobacco and breath mints.</p><p>They still hadn't discussed everything that happened that night. But Amanda was better now. They both were. What they didn't need was a setback by Dean Rollins and his psychedelic smokestack girlfriend (a term used as loosely as Patty herself). Olivia had little experience with accidental encounters of estranged family members—both of hers were dead—but that last five-minute conversation with Simon haunted her still, and it had dredged up so many old scars. If there was one thing she knew about Amanda's family, it was that they were experts at opening wounds, old and new.</p><p>"You caught me," said Dean, putting his hands in the air like a referee calling a goal. "Don't arrest me, officer. She ain't jailbait anymore, I swear."</p><p>Patty's giggle was as off-kilter as her phlegmy voice. She finished it up with a gravelly cough and flicked her lit cigarette into the dirt behind the concession stand. At least she'd avoided the scrubby patch of grass nearby, although Olivia doubted that was out of courtesy. The broad simply had poor aim. "Officer Mandy," she warbled, and despite her emphysemic hacking and overcooked appearance, the vicious high-school girl within her reared its ugly head. "That what they call you?"</p><p>"We call her Detective Rollins, actually," Olivia announced, one hand secured at the curve of Amanda's hip. She wished she wasn't holding the damned rainbow alpaca—that undermined her credibility a tad—but if it was between looking ridiculous or having Dean's eyes glued to her tits, she'd stick with the stuffie. "Second grade."</p><p>"Oh yeah, I heard you got promoted," Dean said, regarding Amanda thoughtfully, but without much in the way of fatherly pride. He could just as easily have been inquiring about her new desk chair. "Only second grade, huh? Why not first? You're sleeping with the boss, ain't you?"</p><p>Unbelievable. But just when Olivia thought it couldn't get any worse, Psychedelic Patty opened her bright pink mouth, licked her nicotine-stained teeth, and, looking directly at Olivia, added, "What's the matter, our little Mandy not quite doin' it for ya?"</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Lady Always Knows When to Leave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Author's note from ff.net:<br/>Ngl, I got a kick out of reading all the reactions to Dean &amp; Patty. You guys make me smile. I hope you find the conclusion to that conversation satisfactory. :) Unfortunately, we're down to the next to last chapter, but I've really enjoyed posting these daily updates and I appreciate all the feedback. So, thanks. I'll leave y'all to the ladies now...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 7:</strong> A Lady Always Knows When to Leave</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"What's the matter, our little Mandy not quite doin' it for ya?"</em>
</p><p>Olivia had heard some doozies since Amanda's promotion in April—everything from speculation that she herself was having an affair with Chief Garland, in exchange for her lesbian lover moving up the ranks, to a rumor that she was cultivating a squad comprised entirely of bisexuals for God only knew what purpose. ("Guess I better start collecting my pension before you unleash the gay-pocalypse," Fin had chortled when she told him that one.) But her brothers in blue at least had the decency not to comment to her face. Unlike these yahoos.</p><p>"H'okay," she said, with a clipped, mirthless laugh. It was either that or punch the shorter woman in her Ziggy Stardust mouth, and Amanda had already taken a menacing step forward, fists clenched at her sides. Olivia caught discreetly at her wrist, not wanting to add insult to injury by overpowering her in front of her tormentors. "I think we're done here. I'd like to say it was a pleasure meeting you both, but I'm not a liar. Mr. Rollins, stay away from the underage girls, or I will hunt you down. Patty . . . " She looked the woman over from head to toe, checking the urge to insult her appearance. That wasn't Olivia's style, no matter how tempting it might be. "Do yourself a favor and grow up."</p><p>"Yeah, and lay off the self-tanner, you look like Donald Trump," Amanda added, evidently not sharing Olivia's sense of propriety. That was okay; if anyone deserved a little nastiness thrown back in their faces, it was the mean girls from high school. To her father, Amanda issued another warning over her shoulder: "Grandmama and Ouiser are in the gospel tent. Best steer clear, now."</p><p>As if that man would set foot in such a place. But, Olivia thought, it was probably for the elderly women's benefit—and their own—to point him in a different direction. Reduced the chances of another unfortunate encounter such as this.</p><p>"See you round, puddin'," Dean called out, not the least bit affected by the unfriendly exchange. In fact, he sounded rather amused. "Nice meetin' you too, sugar."</p><p>The last thing Olivia heard before they wandered out of earshot was Patty insisting that Dean stick up for her ("What, it's true," he snickered, "You're like a Cheeto") and, when he did not, shouting after them herself:</p><p>"Friggin' dykes!"</p><p>Ignoring the angry looks and protests, Olivia cleared a path through the crowd bunched together like cattle around the Scrambler entrance, leading Amanda by the hand and daring anyone to get in the detective's way. The group in line for the Ferris wheel was even less tolerant, and Olivia thought she might have to tussle with the monster of a man—he had to be over six-five and built like a brick shithouse—who looked down at her as if she were a bug he could smash, but he finally stepped aside with a lazy, loping stride. Good. Olivia was not in the mood.</p><p>When they were past all the bright lights, synthesized calliope music, and the cicada-like drone of hundreds of mingling voices, Olivia found a shady, mostly quiet spot beside the 4-H barn and turned to Amanda with a somber, searching look.</p><p>"Welp." The blonde hitched her shoulders in a defeated little shrug and gazed down at her dusty shoes, scuffing at the grass with one toe. "Now you've met my daddy. Sorry."</p><p>Without a word, Olivia gathered Amanda to her, wrapping the shorter woman in a gentle, sheltering embrace. It was the way she held their children when they came to her with booboos and bad dreams, tears and questions for which there were no answers ("Mommy, why do bad people hurt nice people?"). If only she could shield them like that forever; if only she could offer them a better, safer world.</p><p>"You don't have to apologize, love," she said, when the heat made it necessary for them to separate. Poor Amanda had melted into her arms, not just emotionally but physically—their damp skin stuck together, audibly peeling apart as Olivia held the detective back at arm's length. She brushed the bangs out of Amanda's eyes, took her lightly under the chin. "Are you okay? Do you want to get out of here?"</p><p>Amanda grasped Olivia's wrist with a small, affectionate squeeze and turned a brief kiss to the heel of the nearby palm. "I'm good. We shouldn't have to spoil our fun because of those jackasses. 'Sides, if we go after Grandmama and Ouise without their caramel apples and saltwater taffy, we'll never hear the end of it."</p><p>That had been the compromise on which they all agreed—Grandmama could attend the fair without a fuss, as long as she and Ouise stayed put in the shaded gospel tent, huge industrial fans posted at each entrance to generate a cool airstream within the flaps, while Olivia and Amanda braved the ninety degree temperatures outside and hunted sweets like game on safari. To return empty handed would surely mean defeat and the ridicule of their peers, or at least Ouiser, whose final instructions as they departed the tent were, "If y'all don't bring me my taffy, I'll put the <em>gris-gris</em> on you. Even your sweet little <em>derrière</em>, Bébé."</p><p>"I guess we better find that candy hut, then," Olivia conceded, patting Amanda's cheek. They had passed about twenty vendors selling caramel apples so far, but the saltwater taffy—"The good kind across from the snow cone stand, not that stale, rock-hard stuff they sell everywhere else," Ouise had specified—was proving elusive. "We can get you a fresh corn dog, if you like? Since you didn't get to enjoy the other one."</p><p>Smiling softly, Amanda hooked an arm through the one Olivia offered. The crooks of their elbows were already slick with perspiration by the time they stepped back onto the thoroughfare. "Nah, didn't taste as good as I remembered, anyway. I do have me a hankerin' for a funnel cake, though . . . "</p><p>"Good Lord, woman," Olivia said. "I'm gonna need a wheelbarrow to roll you on outta here."</p><p>They were still laughing at her fairly decent impression of Amanda's accent and delivery when a petite woman, wearing mucking boots almost as big as she was, exited the livestock barn several yards ahead, shielded her eyes from the sun, and bawled, "Mandy? That you?"</p><p>Oh God, not another one, Olivia thought, and steeled herself for whichever family member or high school frenemy she was about to meet. But as they drew closer to the woman, Amanda threw a wave high above her head and cried, "Mindy! Shoulda known I'd find you shovelin' shit."</p><p>In a quick aside to Olivia before they had reached the other woman, Amanda murmured from the corner of her mouth, "Cousin Mindy. Total hick farm girl, but we like her."</p><p>"Got it," said Olivia.</p><p>Up close, Mindy was prettier than the average hick farm girl, or what Olivia assumed the average hick farm girl looked like. As a matter of fact, she looked quite a bit like Amanda, if Amanda had a squat build and strawberry blonde hair. The skin was the same fair milky-white—a natural redhead, then—and the eyes a brilliant blue that sparkled in the fading sunlight. She couldn't be more than a year or two older than Amanda, but farm life and the Georgia sun had deepened the crow's feet and smile lines that, on her younger cousin, were almost nonexistent.</p><p>The creases fanned across her face as it broke into a wide grin, and she welcomed Amanda with a distant hug, more hands and air than arms and body contact. "Careful, just helped deliver a calf," she said, indicating the specks of gore on the front of her flannel shirt and below the rolled up sleeves. "Don't worry, I wore gloves. And washed my hands."</p><p>"Good to know." Nevertheless, Amanda eased back a step, nose crinkled in disgust. "I'll never understand your affinity for sticking your hands up cow asses. Tipping them I get, but this? Just . . . nasty."</p><p>"Well, believe it or not, much like women, cows do not give birth through the anus," Mindy said, a sardonic little smirk in place. So that was a family trait as well, along with the blue eyes and blunt disposition. "You watched enough of 'em being born back in the day, you should know that. How many bullets to the brain'd you take up there in the big city?"</p><p>"Heh," Amanda answered, but left it at that. Mindy's comment, though obviously a joke, was poorly timed. Not one to let the conversation get away from her, Amanda changed topics with relative ease. "Speaking of the big city. Olivia, Mindy Clawson. Mindy, Olivia Benson."</p><p>Thankfully Mindy was a tad more discreet than the rest of Amanda's relatives, her curiosity kept to a minimum. She didn't do a full-body scan like the others had, but she did smile at the alpaca before extending her hand for a shake. "Nice to finally meet ya, Olivia. I've heard a lot about you."</p><p>She didn't specify what she'd heard or from whom, but the pleasant reception suggested that it wasn't all bad. Either that or Cousin Mindy was one hell of an actress.</p><p>"Pleasure," Olivia said, unable to return the sentiment, since she hadn't known until five seconds ago that the woman even existed. Still, Mindy seemed down-to-earth and Olivia decided to take a chance. "I'm glad to meet one of the . . . stable members of the family."</p><p>For several moments, Mindy and Amanda's laughter was so raucous the animals inside the barn began to stir. It might have been the cousin's bleating giggle, which sounded distinctly ovine, or perhaps Amanda's goosey little honk conjured up memories of antagonistic barnyard fowl. Whatever the cause, the rustling and lowing made Olivia uneasy. Could farm animals stampede?</p><p>"Oh babe," Amanda said, thumbing her bottom lash line, shoulders quaking with a few last convulsive chuckles. "That was a good one. <em>Stable</em> member of the family, oh my Lord."</p><p>"Well, even if it's a pun, you know she's right," said Mindy, batting playfully at Amanda's arm. "I'm the most stable family member you got, girly girl. Everybody else is a horse of a differ'nt color."</p><p>"S-stop," Amanda gasped, holding her stomach as it shook with another bout of uncontrollable mirth. All that junk food churning around in there, it wasn't any wonder.</p><p>Olivia was mildly concerned, but she curbed the impulse to fuss. Her tendency to catastrophize had been the focus of many a therapy session with Lindstrom recently; she was supposed to concentrate on the realistic, the good, he told her. Okay then, the realistic: Amanda was healthy and strong, her kidney was fine. And the good: That big, genuine laugh.</p><p>That helped a little, but she still pressed her palm to the small of Amanda's back just for the contact and reassurance.</p><p>"Who'd she introduce you to?" Mindy was asking her, unaware of any shift in the emotional climate. "My mama or hers? No wait, her daddy. Not my brother, I hope. Oh Lord, you met Aunt Ouiser, didn't you?"</p><p>"A few of those, yeah." Olivia smiled faintly. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the size of Amanda's family. She'd been in kindergarten—graduating in the auditorium with twenty of her classmates—when her best friend Caroline whispered, "How come your mommy didn't bring nobody else?" and she'd first begun to realize her lack of relatives set her apart from most people. This whole day, though mostly wonderful, felt a little like that Class of '74 kindergarten graduation.</p><p>Amanda must have noticed the change, because she quickly sobered up and transferred the hand on her stomach to Olivia's abdomen instead, the other arm looping behind her waist. She niched herself under the shelter of Olivia's arm, as if seeking warmth, despite her rosy cheeks and the sweat beads collecting at her hairline.</p><p>"We're just laughing about the stable thing 'cause Mindy is a horse nut, darlin'," she explained, resting her chin on Olivia's shoulder, face turned up sweetly enough to kiss. "She practically lived in the stables when we were growing up. I used to tease her that she was gonna marry a horse someday. How's that workin' out for ya, Min?"</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Towanda</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, we've reached the last chapter. I haz a sad. But it was fun while it lasted. Thanks to those who stuck with the story, and hopefully I'll have more Rolivia to post at some point in the not too distant future.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Chapter 8:</strong> Towanda</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"She practically lived in the stables when we were growing up. I used to tease her that she was gonna marry a horse someday. How's that workin' out for ya, Min?"</em>
</p><p>"'Bout as well as marryin' Billy Ray Cyrus worked out for you," Mindy fired right back.</p><p>Olivia raised an eyebrow at her detective. This time she folded her lips together, suppressing a real smile. "Billy Ray Cyrus?"</p><p>"I traded up. Also, I was twelve." Amanda delivered the first line with a coy flutter of her lashes—and a warm stroke to Olivia's abdomen—then shot her cackling cousin the evil eye with the second. So that's what putting the <em>gris-gris</em> on someone looked like. Now Olivia understood. "At least mine was . . . somewhat plausible. You were in love with Prince, for cripes' sake."</p><p>"Joke's on you, cuz. Prince and I have been very happy together all these years." Mindy folded her arms over the dark stains on her shirt. She resembled Amanda even more when she was being stubborn. "He's still the only man for me."</p><p>"Wait, he's alive? I thought he'd be long gone by now. He's gotta be ancient."</p><p>"He's up there, but he still lets me ride him. He's a sweetheart. Gentlest soul I ever met."</p><p>"I assume we're talking about a horse," Olivia interjected, lowering her voice and leaning in confidentially. "And not <em>Purple Rain</em> Prince?"</p><p>Prince indeed turned out to be a horse; an Appaloosa more precisely (Olivia had never heard that term before in her life), whose black and white spotted coat was reminiscent of a Dalmatian. A very large, very intimidating Dalmatian. Olivia tried to think of him as a dog while she stood outside the stall, watching Mindy prepare the saddle or "tack," as she called it.</p><p>It had been decided that Olivia would take Prince, since she was a novice and he an old hand at escorting beginners, from children to adults. How she had gotten roped into riding a horse in the first place was a mystery itself—one minute the three women had been walking to the equine barn, where Mindy's horses were boarded for the duration of the fair, the next, Mindy was insisting that they all go for an evening ride. Off into the sunset.</p><p>Or over a cliff, Olivia thought, apprehensively eyeing the dapple. He did seem docile enough and he had nickered a greeting to Amanda when she approached his stall, as if he were welcoming an old friend. Amanda, it so happened, knew her way around a horse almost as well as her cousin did. Just when Olivia didn't think the detective had anymore surprises up her sleeve, she'd strolled into the barn and started tacking up a palomino mare named Marmalade with the efficiency of a farmhand.</p><p>"You're kinda turning me on right now," Olivia had teased, fascinated as Amanda's fingers worked the various leather straps and buckles with ease.</p><p>"Ooh, shall I leave you two alone?" Amanda had asked, grinning impishly over her shoulder from Olivia to the mare, and back again.</p><p>Now, though, as Mindy made the final adjustments to the gelding's tack, reality was beginning to set in and Olivia was getting nervous. She turned to Amanda, who waited beside her with Marmalade's reins in hand—the mare kept sniffing something on Amanda's tank top (sugar, probably) and nibbling at the button of her jeans—and said, "I think you should ride Prince. He seems to really like you. And he's so laidback."</p><p>"Probably 'cause he's a thousand years old and dudn't give a shit anymore." Amanda snorted in amusement, but grew serious when she saw the legitimate concern on Olivia's face. She scooped up Olivia's hand, guiding it to her chest, her heart. "Hey, we don't have to do this if you're too . . . "</p><p>Freaked out? Chickenshit? Convinced you're going to be crushed or eaten by fifteen hundred pounds of Appaloosa?</p><p>"Uncomfortable. Hey, Min, maybe—"</p><p>"No, I want to," Olivia said hastily. She didn't want to; she had survived fifty-three years without once hopping into the saddle, and would gladly live another fifty-three with her feet firmly on the ground. But she wasn't going to be the spoilsport who robbed Amanda of the chance to bond with her cousin and revisit a favorite childhood pastime, either. "I'd just feel better if you were on Prince. Please? I can handle Marmalade. She seems friendly, too."</p><p>Amanda glanced to Mindy, who shrugged as she stepped forward and handed Prince's reins to her cousin. "Marm's a dream," said the redhead, patting the palomino's neck. "She's the one I teach the younger kids on. She's a total mother hen. Treats them just like her babies."</p><p>"Well, you two oughta be peas in a pod, then." Amanda passed the mare's reins behind her back and into Olivia's hands. She addressed her cousin next, but kept a fond little smile trained on Olivia. "Liv loves her some babies, don't you, darlin'?"</p><p>"They're kinda cute." Olivia feigned an indifferent shrug, then returned the smile and a wink when Amanda did a double-take. It was possible she'd had a touch of baby fever lately, but she couldn't help herself. Matilda would be three years old by the end of the month, Jesse had just turned six, and Noah was fast approaching nine, soon to be in the double digits. Her babies were babies no longer.</p><p>"Since y'all took the well-behaved ones, I'll go saddle up <em>my</em> naughty baby," Mindy said, breaking into Olivia's reverie. She tramped towards a stall with the name Villanelle painted on a wooden plaque that hung beside the gate. On the other side, a beautiful, keen-eyed sorrel with a white diamond face huffed and perked its ears forward as she advanced.</p><p>A moment before Mindy opened Villanelle's stall, a man poked in his head at the opposite end of the barn, squinting in the dim light. When his eyes adjusted and he caught sight of Mindy, he let out a shrill whistle that cut straight to the bone. (What was it with these Georgia men and their damn ear-splitting whistles?) Even the horses started at the sound.</p><p>"Hey, Min," the man called, either unaware or unconcerned that he'd caused a disturbance. "Got an emergency with one of the sows in the hog barn. I could really use another set of hands."</p><p>"Go," agreed Amanda and Olivia in unison, when the redhead looked to them with uncertainty.</p><p>"This is what happens when you're a surgical god in the world of livestock veterinary medicine." Mindy held up her hands and gave a jazzy wiggle of her fingers. Cocky like Amanda, too. "You're in charge now, Mandy," she hollered back, on her way out of the barn. "Just remember: they shoot horse thieves 'round here."</p><p>Amanda chuckled and shook her head at the questioning glance Olivia cast in her direction. It was the Deep South—anything was possible. "They don't. Anymore . . . that I know of."</p><p>"Well, now I'm reassured." Olivia crossed behind Amanda, but maintained a wide berth from Marmalade, who glanced back with mild interest. Or perhaps suspicion. Great, her trusty steed already thought she was shifty.</p><p>"Baby, are you afraid of horses?" Amanda asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face. She stroked the back of Olivia's hair sympathetically, a loving gesture to make up for the snickering she let slip. "They're real sweet, I promise."</p><p>"Not afraid. Respectful." Olivia reached up to pet Marmalade's withers—she was pretty sure those were the withers—but flinched away when the mare tossed her head. "Okay, maybe a little afraid. They're just so . . . big. And unpredictable."</p><p>"I think I saw a pony ride over by the ducky pond and the toddler carousel . . . "</p><p>"Do you want to wake up in bed with our daughters' entire doll collection some morning? Because I can make that happen."</p><p>That got Amanda's attention and she stifled her laughter long enough to suggest again that they skip the ride altogether. But Olivia had made up her mind, and without Mindy there to witness her making a fool of herself, she didn't feel quite as nervous.</p><p>Almost at once, Mindy's absence proved for the best; everything Olivia thought she knew about mounting a horse, from seeing it done in movies and on television, was erroneous. She approached Marmalade wrong ("Left side, darlin'," Amanda patiently corrected. "It's only tradition, but that's the way most horses are trained"), she could barely get her foot in the stirrup, and without a boost from Amanda—the blonde would use any excuse to grab Olivia's ass—she never would have gained the momentum to swing her other leg up and over.</p><p>"Try to relax and let her feel what you want her to do," Amanda said, as they started off from the empty lot behind the cluster of barns.</p><p>That was a contradiction in terms. Olivia couldn't relax because what she wanted was to climb down, return the horse to her stall, get on a plane, and go back to Manhattan, where the largest animals she encountered outdoors were belligerent pigeons and streetwise rats. Sometimes an overconfident cockroach or two.</p><p>"You all right over there, city girl?" Amanda asked, reading Olivia's mind, even while they clomped along with a thousand pounds of beast beneath them. She looked like a natural in Prince's saddle, her body in tune with his languid movements, horse and rider in perfect harmony with each other.</p><p>Meanwhile, Olivia felt about as graceless as Ichabod Crane on her mount. She tried to mimic Amanda's posture and easy bounce, but Marmalade mistook her squirming as a signal to trot, and she spent the next few seconds in mortal terror, tugging at the reins. They had traveled ten feet at most.</p><p>"I think I'm getting saddle sores," Olivia groaned, when Amanda and Prince sauntered up beside them. She could swear the Appaloosa was smirking right along with the Georgia peach.</p><p>"Guess I'll have to give you a rubdown later, then." Amanda tapped the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat and rode ahead several paces.</p><p>"Follow that sassy little butt," Olivia said to her horse, and gave a short, breathless exclamation of laughter when the mare obeyed. Although, Marmalade probably had a different rump in mind—one with a long black tail attached.</p><p>Ten minutes later, they had reached the outskirts of the fairgrounds, and Olivia expected Amanda to turn them around for the slow trek past the crowded parking lot, which was technically a huge dirt patch marked off by barricade tape, and back to the barn. It was a shame, really. She had just started to get the knack of steering Marmalade and not flinching every time the mare tossed her pretty blonde mane, shooing away the massive horseflies that plagued their passage.</p><p>"Trust me," Amanda said, when, instead of backtracking, she took Marmalade's reins and led both horses onto the quiet country road, away from the steady flow of traffic that poured in from town. "Got somethin' I wanna show ya."</p><p>Olivia did trust her. And it was worth it—the letting go, the subtle swell of fear in her chest as they ambled beyond fences and borders and into the great unknown (past a cornfield and a slender but dense tract of woods). Worth it to see the field of wildflowers stretching out before her, like a colorful, fragrant ocean; worth it to see her detective alight gracefully from the Appaloosa and mosey over to help her down from the palomino; worth it to be swept into a tender, romantic kiss amongst the flowers, only the horses as witness.</p><p>"Thought you'd like it here," Amanda said, plucking a sprig of dainty white flowers from a bush that looked as if it had been sprinkled in the powdered sugar from those waffles she so adored. Olivia thought it might be baby's breath, and when Amanda tucked it behind her ear, the scent confirmed her guess. "I know how much you love a <em>petit joli</em>. That means—"</p><p>"I know what it means." Olivia turned with the handful of buttercups she'd gathered and selected a trio of the tiny cheerful buds, fitting them behind Amanda's ear and standing back to admire her work. The state might have its flaws, but it certainly produced some lovely golden blossoms.</p><p>"Little pretty," she concluded warmly, taking Amanda's hand as they waded into the sunny sea of wildflowers with Prince and Marmalade by their sides. "Come on, you pretty little bee charmer. I'm gonna make you a daisy crown fit for a queen." <em>My queen</em>.</p><p>"Let them eat funnel cake," Amanda deadpanned.</p><p>"Did I say queen? I meant court jester."</p><p>The horses whickered their agreement.</p><p>
  <strong>. . .</strong>
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  <strong>THE END</strong>
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